


Furbelow

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Crossdressing, Drunk Sex, Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Underpinnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furbelow

**Author's Note:**

> A very special thank you to MillicentCordelia, who contributed to the development of this story.  
> This can be read as either an appendix to the series "My Wife and My Dead Wife", or as an independent work.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Addicts, like diamonds, are forever. That's the first thing they tell you in AA. Even if you never take another drink in your life, you'll still be an alcoholic. It's even more complicated than that: sobriety's a state of mind. You get to pick one of two teams. Are you a sober alcoholic, or a dry drunk? Put it like that, and it sounds like a pick-up line.  
Barnes knows which he is. He made his peace with that a long time ago. The contents of a man's soul are his own business; it's only his actions that matter to those around him. No one in the real world gives a fuck if you're wet or dry.  
Harvey Bullock's definitely wet. It oozes out of him at some point that he stopped drinking over the summer. Barnes doesn't have to ask what made him start again. Harvey realizes this, the trap he's laid for himself as soon as he opens his mouth, and he closes it again. Clamps his lips together into a severe band, and doesn't open his mouth again until he takes another drink.  
But if Harvey falls into a trap of his own making, it's not because Barnes pushed him. Barnes will freely admit to hating the man, but when you go so far into hatred, you're eventually going to come out the other end. As they say, the opposite of hate isn't love; it's indifference. A few months of hating Harvey, and he's begun to not feel very much about him, at all. Once Harvey cools down, he'll get to the same place about Barnes. It might take a while, though: Harvey runs hot. Hot enough for both of them.  
“Are you gonna make your move before or after I pass out?” Harvey asks.  
“What do you mean by that?”  
“You didn't bring me here to help you re-christen your liver because I'm such good company. You want something, ask for it.”  
“You must have fucked your way around the station when you were younger.”  
“Maybe.”  
“They must have been crazy about that act,” Barnes continues. He can hear the liquor in his voice, and he hates how much he loves it. Hates how safe he feels right now. “The baby policewomen thinking that you were some kind of gentleman, for coming on all open and honest. The other men knowing they could trust you to keep a secret, cos you didn't act like a swish.”  
“This sounds like it's coming from personal experience.”  
“Not from mine. I don't fuck women.”  
Harvey laughs, a real, honest laugh like a clap of thunder. Then, he's unnervingly steady, almost sober, as he looks Barnes in the eye. “Ask me, and I'll say yes.”  
“Do you want to fuck?”  
Harvey chugs the rest of his beer. “Let's get the fuck out of here.”  
“Your place or mine, Detective?”  
“You call me 'Detective' in bed, and I'm walking the fuck out.”  
“Even if it's your place?”  
“Especially if it's my place.”  
Harvey's apartment is closer to the bar, so that's where they go. It's a shit-box, just like Barnes imagined, but that adds to the thing. When you're right about something, when it's the way you expected it to be, it's almost like a fantasy come true.   
But there are rules in this little dream home. They need to keep drinking. It's a fine line. You can't drink so much that you can't do anything, but you have to drink enough to stop caring that you want this. Shame's a natural part of the process. They teach you that in AA, too. You keep drinking so that you don't have to be ashamed of yourself for drinking. It's like that with everything. The more you want it, the more shame you need to get past.  
But Barnes is just sipping his drink by now, because all those years of sobriety have made him skittish. At a certain point, it's going to become real, but that hasn't happened yet. He's not falling down, he's not on his knees in front of the toilet, he hasn't blacked out. So, he still has something to lose.  
That's how it is when you start having sex, too. Some people want to lose it all, all at once, so that they can stop worrying about it. He always wanted to keep something for himself. It was starting to crystallize, a little bit more with each date that ended with that flat desolate feeling, that he just wasn't going to be able to do it with girls. So he held back, in order to hold on a little bit longer to the illusion that it would all be all right. One day, the switch would flip, and he'd want them, like he was supposed to. Then, he'd be glad that he'd waited until he knew it would be good.  
When he went away to college, met a bunch of people who didn't care who or what you wanted to fuck, it seemed stupid to have ever put so much thought into it. After the first time, with that boy whose name he still remembers, he wanted to let go. Let it all go.  
Harvey has nothing to lose. He downs the last of his drink, sets the glass heavily on the table, says in that rubbed-raw voice, “Kiss me, you ugly fuck.”  
They're entwined on the couch, like teenagers after the old folks have gone to bed, Harvey's legs tangled with his, hands all over each other. He's pulling Harvey's hair, exposing his throat, mouth buried in the fur there. When Harvey's shirt comes off, he's biting into his pale, freckled shoulder. The way Harvey's bucking against him, he's just begging to be held down. So, Barnes does that, kissing him and forcing a knee between his legs, spreading them wider. He pushes his hand down.  
“Leaky pipes,” Harvey says with a half-hearted laugh, “Low water pressure.”  
“I don't have any pressing engagements,” Barnes says.  
What starts out rough smooths out, and they're moving with each other, almost half-asleep. When he touches Harvey again, he's hard. Turns him around, gets him on his knees, against the side of the couch, jerks him off hard and fast. Harvey shoots onto the upholstery with a strangled sound, heaving and shivering like an animal.  
“Give me a moment,” Harvey says, sitting down, breathing heavily.  
“I don't think you're ready for me,” Barnes says.  
“Fuck you,” Harvey spits, pushing his hair out of his eyes.  
“Maybe next time.”  
“Fuck your 'next time',” Harvey calls as Barnes walks out the door.  
A habit has to start somewhere.

“Right here. In your fucking office? Are you out of your mind?”  
“Maybe,” Barnes says and shrugs.  
“Fuck,” Harvey laughs, shaking his head.  
Then, another 'Fuck', this one hissed, disoriented, confounded, accompanied by a widening of the eyes, when he unzips Barnes' pants and slips his hand inside, then looks down at what he's touching. Harvey recovers quickly, though, asks, “Is it a matching set, or just the drawers?”  
“Wouldn't you like to know?”  
Harvey's quiet for a long moment. But his hand's still where it was, pressing into the satin. Then, he moves it a little bit, rubbing the material against the flesh beneath. “Maybe I do.”  
“Your place. After work.”  
“You are fucked up.”  
“Decline my offer.”  
“Fuck you.”  
“After work.”  
Work's important. They're officers of the law, after all.  
There's no preliminary trip to the bar this time. There isn't even much drinking in Harvey's living room. Harvey pours them one each, downs his immediately, then pours himself another. Downs that.  
“I want to see it,” he announces, putting down his glass.  
“Let me finish my drink.”  
As he does, he can hear Harvey breathing, that ragged sound like material being slowly rent. When Barnes is done, he stands. “Take off my jacket.”  
For a second, Harvey looks like he's going to say something, but he complies without a word. Barnes inclines his head, toward his vest. Harvey removes that. He takes off his own tie, undoes his cuffs, places his cuff links on the table next to Harvey's glass. Harvey has his hand over his mouth as Barnes unbuttons his shirt.  
“I can't fucking believe this,” Harvey says, “This is why you just left the other night, isn't it?”  
“I told you you weren't ready for me.”  
“Fuck you. Shit. How the fuck am I supposed to take you seriously, now?”  
“Don't be provincial, Bullock. It's just material. Satin. Lace. Elastic. Wire. Touch it, if you want.”  
Harvey does. Snaps one of the straps, which Barnes allows, because Harvey's had a shock and he needs to get something back for himself. When Barnes doesn't flinch, Harvey spreads his hand over a whole cup, like he'd do if it held a woman's breast, obviously unsteady at contacting a flat and not a convex surface. He rubs his thumb across the lace, presses in where he can feel the nipple beneath the material. He narrows his eyes.  
“Fuck you for making me want this.”  
They make it to the bedroom this time.  
“Leave it on,” Harvey says, pushing up the strap as it slips down Barnes' shoulder.  
“Touch it,” Barnes says, and Harvey does. Then, he puts his mouth on it, kisses the satin and licks the lace, so Barnes takes off his pants sooner than he meant to, and lets Harvey see it all. His hard on ruins the lines, but you can't have everything.  
Harvey's touching him everywhere, rubbing himself against the material. He's lost his own clothes, sweating, shaking, panting, naked, hands down the back of Barnes' panties. Barnes will put him out of his misery soon. But not yet.  
Barnes gets up, stands by the bed. “Get on your knees,” he says, but not unkindly. He's not here to punish Harvey. Harvey can do that to himself.  
Harvey could say no. He could tell Barnes to fuck off. Get the fuck out of his house. He'd save himself a lot of shame if he did. But there'd still be some. It comes the second you start wanting something. It only goes away once you start to need that something. The only way out of it is through it.  
Harvey's there. Moving through it. Pushing aside satin and lace to suck Barnes' cock. This is when it becomes real. When you can no longer convince yourself that it's an academic exercise, some kind of thought experiment, something about philosophy or psychology. And you become it. Then, you're just a man fucking another man, feeling his mouth on you, his hands on you, feeling nothing but your desire for him.  
He wants to tell Harvey not to swallow, but it's too late. The words wouldn't come out, anyway. He can't talk. He can barely think. Harvey's lying back down, and Barnes is on top of him again, kissing his mouth, touching his body. Jerking him off, and biting the same place on his shoulder he did the other night, making Harvey shake in his arms. Kissing him a little bit more before he goes down on him. Sucking him deep, because this isn't going to take very long. Barnes swallows, too, because the way out of this is through it.  
He takes off his bra and panties, then, because the fabric's damp, and the elastic is digging into his skin.  
“What's this about?” Harvey finally asks. Now that the spell is broken. “Is it just a sex thing, or do you do it everyday?”  
“Yeah, I do it everyday.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I like it, that's why.”  
“Does it turn you on, or do you just like to feel pretty?”  
“Both,” he says, turning to look Harvey in the eye.  
Harvey covers his face with his hand. “I can't believe I fucking did this.”  
“What, fucked a superior officer, or fucked a man wearing women's underwear?”  
“Both,” Harvey laughs, “I guess that it'd be in bad taste to ask for a raise.”  
“You'd have to have fucked half the local government and most of the payroll department before you even got around to spreading for me, if that's what you were after.”  
“No thanks,” Harvey snorts, “I'm surprised I even got it up for you.” Then, “What made you start again?”  
Barnes is absolutely not going to ask what Harvey's talking about. He's not going to answer the question, either. Instead, he asks one he knows the answer to, “What made you?”  
They're both caught in this trap, now, and they're both going under.   
You'll always start out on the shore, safely and calmly watching the ships drift by. But the time is going to come when the salt and the spray will overwhelm you, and you won't be able to resist immersing yourself. You want to get in over your head. You want to get wet. So wet, you don't think you could ever be dry again.


End file.
